


On Sunday Morning

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: :(, Cold, Cold Weather, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Hurt, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Nightmares, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22635145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes last night won't let you forget it happened.Sometimes you get so irrationally mad at someone who made a better decision than you.Sometimes you can't take back your mistakes
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 19





	1. Head hurts

Ivan’s head hurt. It wasn’t the right kind of hurt, like a headache, but something else. Something more. It hurt too much. And so he lay silent in his bed, curled in on himself and crying salty tears. His curtains were drawn, but light still spilled through the small gap between them. The fabric was thick and dark, and with his blurry vision, he could barely even tell where the curtains stopped and the wall began. He didn’t even remember painting his walls such a dark color. 

Another sharp stab of pain in his head and he whimpered and grasped his hair. Fingers tangled in knotted hair. Pulling. But only just a little. 

More tears slipped out, and Ivan couldn’t help but wail. He was having a hard time remembering anything. What day was it? Where was he? How long had he been here? Was he even awake at all? Or were these all just phantom pains from a dream?

He wanted to hit his head against a wall. He knew it wouldn’t help, but he needed to take his frustration out on something, and what better object was there than himself? He yanked and pulled his hair, then clawed at his arms and sobbed. It hurt. His head, his arms, everything.

Maybe if he slept. Maybe if he just went to bed and woke up later he’d feel better. But it was morning already, wasn’t it? He shouldn’t sleep now. But he had to. His head hurt too much, he wouldn’t even be able to do anything. He should rest. Yes, yes he should. Sleep would help. It had too.

It had too.


	2. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan tries not to remember a bad night, but a nightmare won't stop until it's done the damage it wants

He stood up high in the cold, so so dark. Somewhere he could fall so easily and hurt himself. He was crying and his feet were numb. He should be wearing shoes, shouldn’t he? But there were just his pink and white socks, dirty and fuzzy. Bits of dust and a few strands of hair stick to them. His gray sweatpants weren’t much different, just the same kind of filth that wasn’t even that filthy.

Ivan hated it. He hated himself. 

It was so cold out. What if he fell? What if he slipped? He might. A small part of him hoped he would. He wondered what would happen if he jumped. He knew he didn’t have the guts to, but what if he did. Would he break something? Maybe, if he fell and hit his head at the right angle, he would die. What would death feel like? He wanted to know, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. At least not today. 

He was nothing but a coward. Always had been.

The wind was picking up again, and he found himself crying. If he fell, would anyone even care? He felt so cold, so numb. Empty, really. Just empty and still and blank. The tears dried on his face. There had only been two, maybe three. He couldn’t even bring himself to cry nowadays. Everything stayed the same, still and blank and empty and cold.

He heard a noise behind him, and he turned. He stood in front of a window, dim light pouring from the open door inside. He looked behind him to find himself standing on a roof. He looked down at the grass, stiff and frozen and frosty. The roof was so steep. One misstep and he would fall. He wanted to go, he wanted to see what would happen.

But the sound came again. A scraping noise and it was so sudden and loud and he wanted to cry. He looked back out into the night sky, breathing in one last breath of chilly night air, and he clambered back through the window.

He knew this room must be his, but it was fuzzy and dark and cold. It didn’t seem like his. More like a watery memory that was desperately trying to be the real thing. Ivan sighed and wiped at the stickiness on his face that his few tears had left. He looked back out the window. 

The screen. 

He’d cut it. He frowned at the cut and torn edges. He reached a hand out to touch them, but pulled back as a gust of cold air pushed itself into his room. He whimpered and clenched his fists. It didn’t matter, not really. He’d just have to fix it. Maybe tape would work.

But for now, he needed to find the source of the sound. He walked to the center of his hazy memory of a room, and stared down at his floor. A rug with warm colors that he didn’t even remember lay beneath his feet, and his mind went blank as he tried to remember where he got it.

He looked to the side, where the rug stopped and he could see the bottom of his door. A neatly folded piece of paper sat on the ground. He could see black marker leaking through the paper. Line paper wasn’t very good at handling markers.

He bent down and picked it up, standing on shaky legs as he unfolded it. 

He couldn’t read what it said. 

It wasn’t that the handwriting was bad, in fact, it was nice and neat and smooth, but it was just like his room. A blurry, hazy, foggy memory of a note he must’ve read at some point. Though he couldn’t tell what it said, something deep in his screamed at him that he had to go downstairs. Someone must be waiting for him. A memory of a neatly written note and a nagging feeling of dread, someone was waiting for him.

So he left his room, shivering as he entered the hallway. It wasn’t that it was cold, it was warm. And dark. But a bright light shined downstairs and carried itself up and into the hallway. Ivan slipped silently down the steps and into the living room.

No one was there. 

The TV was on, the lights were on, a pillow with a wet spot sat bunched up in the corner of the couch, two half eaten bowls of spaghetti sitting right by it. An almost empty glass of orange juice sat on the dining room table, and water was pouring from the kitchen faucet. The refrigerator was slightly ajar, and the eerily bright light from inside it leaked out into the dimly lit kitchen. 

Someone was waiting for him.

Ivan ignored the feeling of dread and searched for something to fix the window screen with. He pulled open a large drawer in the kitchen, and almost cried as his hands searched blindly in the drawer. His eyes couldn’t identify a single item in the drawer, just blurry colors and the faint shapes of objects that must’ve been there once upon a time.

He pulled away and slammed the door shut, a single tear sliding down his pale face as he screwed his eyes shut and crouched on the ground. He shoved his palms at his eyes, crying out and squeezing his body as close together as he could get it. 

He stayed like that for a minute or two, before he finally gathered himself back up, and slowly stood again. He couldn’t stop shaking. He walked slowly past the drawers, staring at the counter. A roll of packing tape sat by a bowl of shriveled fruits. Ivan reached out his cold hands and grasped it tightly. He quickly walked to the stairs, sniffling and sending the slowly fading room one last terrified glance before he ran up the stairs. 

He quickly made his way to his room, ignoring the light that slipped under the crack of the doors in the hallway. There was no one there, he knew. But he still felt that nagging feeling that someone was waiting for him, someone important. Someone who cared.

He threw his door open and then threw it back shut. He fumbled with the lock, but breathed a sigh of relief when he heard it click. He pressed his back to the door and squeezed his eyes shut. A sob wracked his body, but still, tears refused to fall. He groaned and whined, pushing himself away from the door and doing his best to not stare at his room as it seemed to melt and reform over and over. 

This wasn’t his room. At least, it wasn’t his real room. This room did its job of looking like what he thought his room looked like, but the ground shouldn’t shift beneath his feet, and the painting he’d painted shouldn’t slide along the wall before finding its way back in place. His blankets shouldn’t be falling off the bed before some invisible force pulled them back on.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Ivan let out another sob, and two tears fell. He ran back to his window, yanking the screen up and tearing off a piece of tape. He sobbed and whined and whimpered as he struggled to tape the screen back in place. He wanted it to stay. He didn’t want anyone to know what he did.

But as he slapped piece after piece of tape up to keep the screen still, he felt regret pool in his stomach. An ugly feeling that boiled and twisted uncomfortably and formed a pit at the bottom of his stomach. Bad, bad, bad. Maybe he should just climb back out the window and throw himself out. Maybe then it wouldn’t matter that he tore his screen. Maybe then, nothing really would.

A car drove past on the street below. A cop car. Ivan almost screamed. He slapped a few pieces of tape in their final place and slammed the window shut. His eyes watered and more and more knots formed in his stomach as The car backed up and stopped in front of his house. He threw the curtains shut and ran from his room. 

A heavy knock sounded on the front door. Someone answered it, and he could hear both of their deep, muffled voices echoing in his head. It hurt so, so, so much and he let out a scream that burned his throat. He ran from his room and into the bathroom. He frantically locked the door, his dry sobs echoing in the small room. 

Ivan stumbled over to the bathtub, and dropped himself in, curling up in a ball. He almost pulled the shower curtain shut around him, but he couldn't. His body stayed locked in place and his eyes watered. 

He hoped against hope that they wouldn’t come knocking.

Not a minute later, someone knocked on the bathroom door. Ivan stiffened, his breath caught in his throat. He felt like he was going to vomit.

A feminine voice asked him something, but he couldn’t tell what. For some reason, he responded, but he didn’t even know what he said. The voice sounded satisfied with his answer, and she left. 

It was so strange, like a memory had just played but he couldn’t hear it. Like a memory he was trying so hard to block away was being shown to him and he was desperately trying to pretend it wasn’t. But he couldn’t stop it from playing, and he couldn’t even go through it like he should. Something was so terribly off and bile stung at the back of his throat.

Someone was waiting for him.

Ivan wanted to scream and cry and shout and sob, but he couldn’t. He stayed locked in place as his body shook with sobs and his eyes stayed unseeing. Heavy laughter echoed in the hallway. The police officer must’ve left, and those strange, deep voices of people who had to have been there at some point were laughing in relief. 

Ivan sobbed for real this, no dry sobbing and no wishing for tears to come. They poured from his eyes, and he wrapped his arms around himself. The fabric of his sweater suddenly seemed to itchy, and it stung at a cut on his wrist. He didn’t put it there, but it didn't matter. If it hadn’t come about naturally, it still would’ve ended up there.

Ivan did firmly believe that he deserved it.

Ivan’s breathing slowed as someone gently knocked on the door. Their voice was softer, and sounded so worried and kind that Ivan almost started sobbing again. They asked him something, and Ivan responded with something. He thought they left, and Ivan sat alone in the tub with tears drying and making his face red and sticky.

He threw up.


	3. Sunday Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a sad Sunday morning

Ivan woke up with tears streaming down his face. His throat hurt and his eyes hurt and so did the cut on his wrist. At least his head didn’t hurt anymore. He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow.

His phone buzzed on his bedside table, and he reached for it with a heavy hand. He slowly wrapped his fingers around it and whimpered into his pillow. He brought the phone close to his face, staring blankly at the bright screen. The screen said it was 11:04am, and he almost winced at how late it was. He never woke up this late. But, last night had been something, something tiring. 

He deserved his rest. At least, that’s what Alfred said and firmly believed. Ivan was another story.

Ivan unlocked his phone, quickly reading what had been the cause of his phone buzzing, a text from Alfred. Or, a few. Fresh tears brimmed in Ivan’s eyes as he struggled to read the messages.

_Hey babe! You should come hang out with me and the boys tonight, it’s gonna be a blast_

_Babe? Where you at????_

_I guess you’re not coming_

_But that’s fine! There’s always next saturday! Saturday night babyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!!! I’ll see ya tomorrow, later skater_

Ivan sobbed into his pillow, burying his face in it and biting his lip before he moved on. Alfred wanted to hang out. His lovely boyfriend wanted to hang out, and Ivan had done was ignore him and mope about and make mistakes. So many mistakes. 

Next was a photo of Alfred in a club of some sort with flashing lights and Gilbert and Roderich making out behind him. Next was Alfred gagging at the camera with Arthur and Francis making out with Elizaveta recording from the sidelines. 

Ivan whimpered. At least Alfred had fun. Alfred had a good night. Ivan didn’t deserve a good night. Not now, not ever. All that mattered was that Alfred was happy. 

Another photo of Alfred shirtless in bed this morning, his hair a mess and his blue eyes foggy from sleep. A huge grin on his face, his startlingly white teeth sparkling. The message accompanying it read: How’s my little angel doing on this sunday morning?

Ivan bit his lip. Alfred was happy. Alfred and his tan skin and his toned muscles and his rough, calloused hands running down Ivan’s skin as he purred praises in Ivan’s ear. 

But maybe not today. Not on this Sunday, not today. He didn’t want Alfred to see the cut on his wrist, he didn’t want Alfred to worry. Which was why he didn’t send a picture in response. He didn’t want Alfred seeing his puffy red eyes and his runny nose and his lip bloodied from how hard he kept biting it.

He’d pretend last night didn’t happen, even if it wouldn’t let him. Alfred didn’t need to know. So he wouldn’t. Even if Ivan would keep getting nightmares about it after tonight, even if Ivan had to tape his screen back in place every day. Alfred wouldn’t know.

Not on this Sunday morning. Not on his Sunday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading

**Author's Note:**

> I did something I shouldn't have, and now I can't stop thinking about it. This is me venting about a mistake I made, this is me trying to apologize to myself for my terrible decisions.   
> Maybe I can pretend it didn't happen, or maybe I'll just have to embrace it.   
> I hope I can get help soon.   
> I'm doing better though, so if anyone got even slightly worried then there's no need to be :)


End file.
